Star Wars: Knight Errant

by John Jackson Miller

  “What happened?” Kerra croaked, voice raw from exposure.

  “You went for a walk outside without your space suit,” Rusher said, grinning.

  Kerra struggled to sit up. “No, I meant to the dome. I was fighting Arkadia—and then half of it vanished.”

  “Oh,” Rusher said, stepping inside the room. “Thank Bitsy for that.” He explained that while he’d been waiting to be picked up by what was left of Diligence, he’d spied a telltale knob alone on the ice out to the east. Catching the faintest trace of a signal from the tag on Kerra’s lightsaber, he’d sent his ship on a flyover to confirm it was the top of a deep and massive dome. Then the brigadier, along with Lubboon and the Rippers, had heaved the massive weapon onto a cargo sled behind one of Arkadia’s trundle cars. One final shot across the tundra had leveled the dome.

  “You thought I was in there—and you shot it? You could have killed me!”

  “We’re a precision crew,” Rusher said. “We shaved it like hair off a bantha.”

  Pouring himself a cup of something medicinal, he recounted how he’d tricked his way into Calimondretta with his remaining artillery pieces. He was fortunate that Arkadia had sent the icecrawler to get all the refugees in one trip; it had allowed him to put all of his munitions into action.

  “We’d never deployed inside a building before, but we hoped if we got in there and shot enough stuff, they’d give you to us—or you’d scurry out somewhere.” He drank. “That’s how it worked.”

  “How’d I get back to the ship?”

  “I … arranged transportation.”

  “You carried me?”

  “Barely,” Rusher said. “You’re heavier than you look.” He smiled. “All muscle, I know.”

  Kerra rolled her eyes. “What about that bad leg of yours?”

  “Well, I had to keep my lurch ratio perfect this mission. And as has been brought to my attention, the walking stick was always just for show.”

  “I’m sorry I broke your old one.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind. I like the new one you brought me better.” Rusher lifted something from a shelf, behind her.

  Kerra recognized it with a start. “Arkadia’s lightsaber?” Looking again, she realized it was the detached, ornamental middle. So that’s what the stick was that got me out of the museum, she thought. “But it’s too small for a cane.”

  “But dandy for a swagger-stick,” Rusher said.

  Kerra rubbed her eyes. “The refugees?”

  “All aboard Diligence, all safe. All twenty-two hundred of them.”

  The Jedi’s dark brow furrowed. “But we had …”

  “One thousand seven hundred and seventeen,” Rusher said. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but we picked up some more riders on our way out. A bunch of laborers found environment suits and dashed across the ice to us, begging to be taken along. Apparently, they weren’t as patriotic as Arkadia wanted them to be. You remember that Twi’lek—the supply-clerk-turned-metallurgist? Evidently it wasn’t much of a promotion.”

  Rusher shared some of what they’d been told by the new arrivals, including details about Arkadia’s chemical weapons program. He smirked. “Sounds like we took part of that operation out during our little rampage.”

  “By accident,” Kerra said. “You didn’t even know it was there!”

  “I’m in artillery. Everything we hit, we hit on purpose—even if we don’t know what it is!” He patted the bulkhead. “Anyway, there was plenty of room here on Diligence for them, although we’re kind of back to being Vichary Telk. Only ugly. With the cargo pod clusters gone, the spaceliner was a spaceliner again, more or less.

  “Might as well put it back to its service,” he said.

  Kerra shook her head. “You tore apart your ship to save me?”

  “My engineer isn’t very happy with me, but what else is new? Besides,” he said, reaching for Kerra’s arm and pulling up her sleeve, “you were carry ing our destination.”

  Kerra looked at the numbers on her arm, scrawled there by the Bothan. She wondered what had happened to him. The last thing this part of the galaxy needed was him out there, working his mischief in his stealth suit. And yet, for some reason, he had helped her—and helped Rusher. She wondered if Narsk knew the reason why, himself.

  A thought struck her suddenly. “Your artillery pieces! You left them on Syned?”

  “Well, we couldn’t very well bring them with us with no cargo pods. You know how it is with those things. Lightning-fast to deploy, forever to get moved out. And we were a little busy.”

  “But they’re your whole business.”

  “We’re going to the Republic, Kerra. Shopping is the official sport, from what I hear. I’m sure we can find a manufacturer willing to deal.” He looked to the walls. “And it’d be nice to get some new holos.”

  “The Republic!” Remembering, Kerra slapped her knee enthusiastically—only to wince in pain. “I shouldn’t have done that,” she said. “But I think you’ll like to hear this.”

  Quickly, she recounted some of what she learned from Arkadia about the Sith family and the Charge Matrica. As she tried to recall every face, every name from the Bequest, Rusher leapt in with details, filling in the blanks. He seemed to brighten as the pieces fell into place.

  “That’s astounding,” he said. He’d known about some of the relationships, but not all—and while there were a lot more would-be Sith Lords that weren’t in the family, Kerra’s find had made many of the encounters he’d seen make sense.

  “Get a recorder in here. I’ll document everything,” she said. “You want to meet a real Republic Chancellor? I think you’re about to get your chance.” Kerra warmed inside. The first time she’d sent others back to the Republic, they’d had to convey the sad news about what had happened to Vannar Treece and his band. This wasn’t good news, but it was something direly needed in the Republic: light, shone into the darkness.

  Rusher scratched his beard. “This does sound pretty valuable. You know, I’ve been itching to do a refit on the old tub,” he said. “If this info’s worth knowing, maybe they’ll pay to give Diligence four cargo clusters, instead of two.” He watched her face. “What? Don’t they use the barter system there, too?”

  Kerra smirked. “Don’t make me go with you.”

  Rusher laughed. There was more laughter in the halls, she heard. The ship, morose after Gazzari, had been full of glee since the news of their destination spread, he said. Tan might never sleep again.

  “She barely slept before.” The Jedi sighed. Mission accomplished, Gub. “I’m pretty sure Beadle will be happier in the Republic, too.”

  “Actually, he wants to stick with us,” Rusher said. “A few of your kids, too, want to stay on as part of the new brigade when I come back. Don’t blame me—I didn’t recruit ’em. But with their folks still under heel out here, they’d rather stay here, doing something.”

  I bet they won’t feel that way after they’ve seen the Republic, Kerra thought. Then again, maybe they might.

  “Sixty-three thousand,” she mumbled.

  “What’s that?”

  “Hmm?” She looked up, blowing a strand of hair from her eyes. “Oh. I was just adding up how many people I’ve sent back. Between Chelloa and what I’ve done since then, I’ve brought sixty-three thousand refugees to the frontier. About.”

  “That’s a lot of traffic,” Rusher said.

  “Especially when you’re not really trying to lead some exodus,” she said. “It just happens. Sixty-three thousand down, billions to go.”

  Nodding, Rusher took his new swagger-stick and stood. “I guess you’ve got your own lurch ratio to worry about. That’s what I came up here to tell you. We’ve got a quick stop coming up in a few hours—Tramanos, I think. I’m sure there’s someone unpleasant there to keep you busy.”

  Kerra watched the man head to the door. For someone she’d thought a tool of the Sith, he’d surprised her. But that was the thing about tools. They could be used for anoth
er purpose. A better one.

  “Rusher,” Kerra called. “When you get to the Republic—I’d stay there, if I were you.”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” he said, grinning. “You’re going to do what you came here to do—one system at a time.”

  Kerra laughed. “Me and what army?”

  “You never know, kid. Maybe I’ll cut you a rate.”

  The garden stood on a grassy hilltop, overlooking a green sea that stretched beneath towering pink clouds. Nothing from the morning rain lingered beyond a cool breeze, rustling the fronds of the plants lining the walkway.

  Scaling the stone steps to the piazza, Narsk paused to sip from a fountain. Even the water here tasted sweet. For all the harshness of its masters, Sith space held enormous beauty. It was hard to believe this was only one of several such retreats, prepared and tended by the dowager’s trusted orderlies.

  The place was alive with natural sounds. Narsk could hear them now, through the prosthetics implanted in his ears earlier that day. Arkadia had secured the shuttle compartment against the dangers of space, but not the sound of the engines. Even activating the Mark VI hadn’t done any good against the sonic bombardment; the receptors overloaded, burning out the suit forever. Just another of the trade-offs in his line of work; Narsk thought his new ears would make him a more effective spy.

  His nose twitched. A multicolored butterfly perched on it, before flitting dizzily to an exotic flower on the trellis.

  Ahead, a withered hand cupped the blossom. “Welcome to my nursery,” the gardener said to the insect. “And you, as well, Master Ka’hane.”

  At the top of the steps, Narsk knelt. “Thank you, Vilia Calimondra.”

  He waited patiently as the snow-haired woman tended her garden. She always amazed him. Vilia Calimondra, the Evening Star. Conqueror of Phaegon and head of three houses. Bowed by time, but once tall and proud; what a warrior she must have been, Narsk thought. Hands that once held lightsabers were now mottled and wrinkled, well before their time—and yet, her golden eyes were still so alive. The Sith power did that, sometimes. The mind took a toll on the flesh.

  Narsk had expected her to depart as soon as she learned of Arkadia’s plot in full. But Vilia had taken the news of her granddaughter’s plot calmly, and without surprise. Her seers had expected something, hence the brief warning he had received via his implant.

  And if it had unsettled her in the least, she didn’t show it. Here she was, in her simple amber gown, tending to nothing but her plants—and now her grandson. Brought here since Narsk’s last trip up the hill, Quillan sat off to the side under a portable shade. No hoverchair this time; the bearers had carried the chair themselves.

  Avian creatures soared over the ocean. Quillan grew animated, seeing past them to galaxies unknown. Head lolling against the chair back, he spoke syllables to the air.

  “Yes, Quillan,” Vilia said, sitting down at a bench beside the boy. She folded his hands. “Grandmother understands.”

  Narsk understood now, too. The teenager was the center of it all: everything that had happened since Gazzari. While Narsk had been on the battlefield, seeing to it that Odion and Daiman got her directive to attack Bactra, Vilia had grown concerned about someone else: Arkadia. Somehow, Vilia had learned of her granddaughter’s interest in seizing not just the Dyarchy’s territory—that was to be expected—but also the twins themselves. Had Vilia learned of it through the Force? Or through other assets like himself? Narsk hadn’t asked. But Arkadia’s particular focus on the children had concerned Vilia enough that she’d assigned Narsk to look into it.

  His reputation had earned him a position key to Arkadia’s plans on Byllura. It was sheer coincidence that the Jedi had gone to Byllura, too; it had certainly surprised him. But Vilia had known about it as soon as Diligence approached a populated world in the Dyarchy. Vilia had been able to track Kerra’s location ever since her initial theft of the stealth suit—because Vilia had been Narsk’s source for it. Her technicians had obtained the Cyricept system and modified it so that she could track Narsk—and, he imagined, whatever other minions she had given them to. The Mark VI may have been a hole in the spectrum while activated, but once a day while deactivated, it had silently pinged the secret communications network Vilia used to stay in touch with her family.

  So Vilia had always known the Jedi would play a role in her future. She just hadn’t known what it was. Kerra Holt had, in fact, saved Vilia’s life by refusing to play assassin for Arkadia. Once Narsk learned exactly what Arkadia had in mind, he took the opportunity to free her. Vilia always liked her debts paid.

  “You are here with news?”

  “It should please you,” Narsk said. Two of Vilia’s other agents had used the moments of confusion in the Arkadianate to spirit Dromika away from Byllura. The girl would be kept far from her twin brother in the future—they had all learned that was for the best—but also out of the hands of opportunists who might exploit them, as Calician had. And Arkadia, for that matter.

  There had been no communication from Arkadia. Another of Vilia’s kin might have sent a mawkish message, playing the innocent and probing to see what the widow knew. Arkadia had remained silent to her grandmother. But she had spoken to Narsk, when he messaged pretending to be in hiding on a neutral world. From her, he had learned his spur-of-the-moment plan had worked better than he’d had any right to expect.

  The damage done by Diligence had caused the floor beneath the hangar to collapse shortly after Narsk’s departure. All Arkadia had found in the icy rubble were fragments of the booby-trapped hoverchair and the bodies of several of her technicians. Realizing they’d been killed by nerve gas and not the cataclysm, Arkadia had concluded that her aides had somehow loaded the wrong chair aboard the shuttle in the excitement, only to have the tanks in the correct chair rupture during the bombardment. Last seen climbing into his hideaway, Narsk had been able to claim ignorance when he communiated with Arkadia. He was a victim, too, he’d said, arriving on Vilia’s world with the wrong hoverchair.

  She’d responded curtly to that before cutting off the exchange. He knew she had other worries. Other sources had reported major damage to Arkadia’s capital, and the recall of significant forces from the Dyarchy. It would be some time before Arkadia could consolidate her hold over any new territory.

  Vilia liked her debts paid—but she seemed willing to let her granddaughter live with the embarrassment. One didn’t want to be an outcast from this family.

  “Chagras doted on the twins so,” she said, patting Quillan’s hand. “It was so hard, when he was taken away from them.”

  Narsk looked to the ground.

  Rising, she looked searchingly at the Bothan. “You have something to ask, I sense. You wonder if I had something to do with my son Chagras’s death,” Vilia said, “as Arkadia claims.”

  “My lady, I had no—”

  “You would as well ask if Arkadia had anything to do with it,” she said. “An ambitious daughter, fearful her father’s legacy would go to younger, more favored siblings? And an expert in nerve toxins, the very weapon that felled Chagras in his prime? You could construct a case against her as easily as you could against me, and it would be every bit as horrible.” Vilia looked back from the hedge. “So why would you want to? A family is defined by its shared illusions, as much as by its blood.”

  Narsk shrugged. Gathering his courage, he straightened. “I have only had reason to doubt myself,” he said. “I freed the Jedi. She won’t leave Sith space—not if I know her. And now she knows about your family and the Charge Matrica. She could take that information to your enemies. Including the Republic.”

  Vilia waved off his concerns. There were no mass media to disseminate that information in Sith space, no authorities that would be believed. And the Republic had authorities proven itself ineffective even when it had good, recent intelligence about the Sith. “For the moment,” she said, “young Kerra remains the only Jedi around.”

  “She could still be a dan
ger to you and your family,” Narsk said.

  “I look on her as something else,” Vilia said. “She’s just like you, Narsk. She’s a learning experience. For all of them. One day, the Sith will again turn upon the Republic—and we again will be facing the full roster of Jedi Knights. My grandchildren need to at least know how to deal with one.”

  Narsk had performed a dual role for years, she said. By serving her grandchildren, he was at the same time creating challenges for them. As far as Vilia was concerned, Kerra was just one more agent out there, testing her children’s children.

  “I am sorry, dowager,” the Bothan said, looking down. “I know there are things that are beyond me. How does sowing discord strengthen your house?”

  “You don’t have children, do you, Master Ka’hane?”

  Wooden, Narsk managed to shake his head.

  “Well, I have had many—and they have had many. You expect them to fight with one another,” she said. “I happen to expect them to fight well.”

  She turned to the chair, where Quillan continued to stare vacantly at the sea. “You always want them to succeed at whatever it is they set out to do. To strive,” she said, stroking the boy’s hair, “and to thrive.” She smiled gently at the boy. “But when you see that some cannot, you pull them aside.”

  “This … this is a Sith philosophy?”

  Vilia laughed. “The Sith are ancient, Narsk, but there were grandmothers long before that. We have our own function. You could call it a philosophy—but it is part of being what we are.”

  Seeing the woman return to her gardening, Narsk bowed and turned to depart.

  “Oh, and Narsk?” Caressing a thorny flower, Vilia looked back and smiled. “If you do see Arkadia again, tell her I send my love. As always.”

  Read on for a preview of

  Star Wars™: The Old Republic: Deceived

  by

  Paul S. Kemp

  Published by Century

  Fatman shivered, her metal groaning, as Zeerid pushed her through Ord Mantell’s atmosphere. Friction turned the air to fire, and Zeerid watched the orange glow of the flames through the transparisteel of the freighter’s cockpit.